


Apparently the J stands for Jolene

by RocioWrites



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 02:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocioWrites/pseuds/RocioWrites
Summary: The guy is fucking insane. And okay, actually, Crowley sort of gets it because he understands that sentiment of being in love with Aziraphale so wholly, so helplessly; but on the other hand, that’s his emotional support angel, he won’t give him up – hecan’tgive him up. Much less because some human fell in love with him. After all, no one fell like Crowley.





	Apparently the J stands for Jolene

**Author's Note:**

> This probably has already been done, but I just wanted to write my own thing so yeah, you shouldn’t take it too seriously. Look, I know the song is sort of popular but I didn’t really know it until I watched this crack video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOjcUCFCYbA (around minute 3:17) and then this fic was born.  
Cheers!

There are three types of… customers, for calling them somehow, that linger in A. Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop.

The first type is properly a customer. Someone looking to actually buy books, old and valuable, maybe even collectors. Usually this kind of people tire of Aziraphale’s refusals rather quickly and end up abandoning the building in a huff. It’s so funny to watch them try to coerce his angel into selling one of his beloved books; no matter the offer, no matter the price or pleading, Aziraphale always finds his way out of it. Sometimes it even takes a dubious miracle. Okay, it has even taken a _demonic_ miracle once or twice.

The second type, well, one might not even consider them customers. They come, after all, to look at the old first editions in awe, to browse the never-ending catalogue of rarities and chat with Aziraphale about literature. Like a weird select book club, Crowley imagines. They’re usually quite fun and make the angel pretty happy, because these customers know how to appreciate what Aziraphale has in store – and won’t sell.

And then… the last type is the most dangerous one. They can start as any of the other two or simply be this kind at sight. They’re the only ones that aren’t here for the books and that’s unacceptable. _You are this type_ a voice hisses unprompted in Crowley’s mind but he doesn’t let it go any further, preferring to pointedly ignore it. These ones are here solely to bask in Aziraphale’s presence. They’re _in love_ with the angel, simply put.

And he honestly can’t say he doesn’t get it – there’s just something so… special? Lovely? _Divine_ about Aziraphale. And yet, something so grounding, so human-like, so flesh-and-bone warm. He doesn’t blame them at all. He, as a former snake, knows of chasing after charming heated light so of course he doesn’t blame them.

That’s how Crowley has found himself watching them show up every decade or so, there’s always this tell-tale gleaming in their eyes, this softness in their expressions, this carefully huge devotion for Aziraphale, all those emotions mixing and pouring out, spilling, like a glass filled to the brim. With time, the angel has gotten better at noticing, because at first he couldn’t really separate the platonic love, the love for all things in this Earth, from the romantic love, the red-passionate lust-inducing love. Much less when directed at Aziraphale himself.

It was a sort of obliviousness, yes, or well-placed innocence maybe, but it was also some self-protection on the angel’s part, Crowley is mostly sure. He never brings this topic up to discussion though, he values what he has now more than any confirmation of old theories is worth. And besides, Aziraphale became aware sometime along the fourth suitor and that was that.

Even him, that wasn’t – couldn’t be at the moment – around as much as he would have liked, had noticed them so it was only fair for Aziraphale to catch up, and for once sooner rather than later. And with each one there was always some amusement, watching them flutter around Aziraphale, bring flowers and chocolates, sing serenades, write and recite poetry exclusively for him about their love for the angel. And on one glorious occasion bring an enormous diamond ring, the face Aziraphale had made!

It was a bit funny and also it revolved something deep in the hollow of his chest that Crowley didn’t want to explore any deeper.

Then the end of the world came and went and they’re still here. The punishment from their former Head Offices came and went as well and they’re still here. Better yet, they’re together. _Together_. Finally.

_Finally_.

Anyway, back on track, this is the first one of this last type of customers that approaches Aziraphale after the beginning of the rest of their lives and Crowley is having mixed feelings about it; the poor sap visiting every week, sometimes more than once a day because once you fall for the angel you can’t keep yourself away from him – not even the forces of Heaven and Hell could prevent Crowley from mingling with him so clearly this human can’t stop himself from coming back again and again.

It starts innocently enough with the guy – uh, what’s his name? He can’t recall exactly so let’s just call him Bob. So it starts with Bob supposedly coming looking for a gift for a sibling who just loves books or something like that, it’s not like Crowley was really paying attention.

Bob looked around carelessly as if he didn’t really want to be there, looking completely out of place, in total contrast with the middle-aged couple there looking very interested in an Oscar Wilde signed first edition and making Aziraphale hide long enough for them to call it quits and leave empty-handed.

Crowley lounged on a windowsill, enjoying the surprisingly strong sunlight, his angel nowhere in sight trusting Crowley would stop whoever tried to steal something. In the end, the couple tired and left, as expected. Crowley and Bob stayed. The man truly looked like he didn’t belong here and didn’t want to stay another second, checking Crowley suspiciously from time to time which in turn made Crowley give him toothy grins as replies; luckily for the both of them, he was giving the right vibe since the guy didn’t even dare ask him a thing, he doesn’t look like he runs a bookshop now, does he?

He was feeling the manic urge to do something evil – okay, truly, something inconvenient at the very least – when the angel finally showed up, waltzing out of the back room, unnecessary reading glasses on, a cup of hot tea in one hand and a book in the other. His eyes landed on Crowley and he smiled, and then he noticed Bob and the angel frowned.

“Oh.” He murmured and Crowley didn’t even move a muscle. “Hello.”

Bob looked at Aziraphale, it was all it took. “Hello.” He said and approached the angel almost shyly, a small smile blossoming on his unremarkable face.

After that, Crowely tuned most of the conversation out, catching some phrases barely in meaning; as far as he’s concerned the guy wanted to buy a book as a present and Aziraphale convinced him that his books here were all rare first editions and way too expensive for a mere gift. Crowley would have snorted at the ridiculous explanation if he’d been paying attention to the words instead of only checking out the movement of Aziraphale’s lips, his hands clasped behind his back, and the timbre of his voice – soft, twinkling and terribly cunning. Angelic persuasion one might call it.

Then it’s just a matter of days for Bob to be back.

The second time Crowley sees him, the guy is lingering outside, studiously watching the ‘closed’ sign, eyebrows high up on his forehead, as if hoping it would change itself to ‘open’ under his stare. He waits for his parting before going into the bookshop, as if a sign or a lock could keep Crowley away from his angel.

Next time he doesn’t see him but he _knows_ the guy has been _inside_ the bookshop. A lonely miserable potted plant has been abandoned in a nook behind a tower of books; it wasn’t there before, Crowley is sure. It smells like that human and it annoys him to no end, so much that that night he makes a point of dragging Aziraphale to bed with him and sleep curled up around those soft curves, Aziraphale petting his hair while reading the whole night away.

A week later he comes in and Aziraphale’s tender laugh receives him, eyes widening behind his sunglasses he can’t believe what scene was waiting for him: Bob holding a fucking box of chocolates open in his hands and the angel gluttonously picking up the most delicious ones, eyes sparkling with that kind of hunger only sweet things bring out in him, the guy saying something that could or could not be as funny as Aziraphale’s laughter makes one presume.

It makes him _stop_.

And it’d be hypocritical of him because Crowley’s done the same thing countless times, bringing chocolates and pastries of all kinds to his angel, telling him the most amusing stories he starred or witnessed just to listen to those heavenly giggles. Oh how weak and obvious they all are in the face of Aziraphale’s charms. They fall so easily.

Demon and humans alike, huh, no difference on this regard, mind you. He positively has gone native then. Crowley wants to be annoyed, mad even. However, looking that devotion in Bob’s eyes, he feels sympathy stir in the pit of his stomach; he knows that longing intimately. The need to reach and touch Aziraphale and denying oneself because the angel is a too blinding and unreachable light, because one can’t be sure where one’s standing with him.

_Crowley knows now_.

But he must confess he’s way too familiar with that uncertainty as well.

Still, he believes Aziraphale could be a bit less alluring and let Bob down once and for all, right? Crowley swears he’ll fucking drape himself all over his angel and spell it out for the guy if necessary. He fought tooth and nail to get here, to get where he is with Aziraphale now, against Heaven and Hell and he’s going to fight this feeble human if he’s got to, don’t you doubt him.

Before he can enact his threat, Aziraphale is eyeing him and waving him over with the most joyous smile. “Ah Crowley darling!” He’s saying and Bob’s face _crumbles_. Crowley grins out of instinct, since that’s his reaction whenever his angel calls for him cheerfully as that.

The rest of Aziraphale’s invitation to taste such scrumptious chocolates goes basically unheard by Crowley, two very different things happening at once and almost overwhelming him. One is the magnificent satisfaction at getting his angel proving to this human who he rightfully belongs to without Crowley meddling. Two, his blackened heart aches for this poor sap; Bob’s face fell like they just shot his beloved pet in front of him or set his gorgeous vintage car on fire; Crowley should rejoice on this development, Aziraphale setting boundaries, being unafraid of making it obvious they’re together right in the face of this type of customer – and yet. Yet he sees the crestfallen expression on Bob, the way he locks eyes on Aziraphale, utterly hurt but ultimately understanding and then giving him the saddest once over Crowley has ever received.

It’s ridiculous, more so for a demon like himself, but still Crowley wonders if this is how being punched in the gut feels like. All the air gone with a sudden movement, the other party goading with pride. Crowley wonders how in the world he can feel so much empathy towards this pathetic lad. He supposes it’s the camaraderie of knowing they both appreciate the best thing in this universe: Aziraphale. And he’d be so fucking devastated if the angel pulled this stunt on him, arriving with gifts to make him smile big like that and then having him call someone else _darling_ with such love in his tone.

That’s entirely too sad.

Somehow, Crowley _feels_ for Bob. Hell, it was kind of harsh, wasn’t it? Well, Aziraphale _is_ enough of a bastard indeed. Crowley shouldn’t be surprised.

He, however, erases any trace of shock and flimsy emotions and instead goes and leans into Aziraphale’s personal space, deliberately taking one chocolate extremely conscious about Bob’s heartbreak.

So that is that.

Until it isn’t.

And three weeks later he finds Bob once again, looking haunted and concerned, lingering right outside the bookshop. It almost seems like he’s lurking, and Crowley knows about lurking since he’s a demon so he can tell.

He parks his car hazardously uncaring in front of his angel’s shop, ready to march into it even if it’s closed only to have the poor lad know who’s in charge. But then it looks like Bob recognizes him, equal parts sombre and resolute, actually turning towards him as if to greet him or strike up a chat. Crowley crosses the street, an angry driver honking at him but avoiding a very awful discorporation either way.

Ignoring him is the best course of action, he supposes, and shoving his hands into his pockets he proceeds to do just that. Bob has other plans though, not intercepting him per se but standing in his way all the same. Crowley observes him, lifts his chin and considers the whole situation once more.

Bob doesn’t look like the violent sort, and really, attacking Crowley in broad daylight outside of Aziraphale’s shop seems to defeat all purpose if he seriously wants to win the angel’s heart. Then again, humans aren’t particularly rational – passionate crimes thorough all history and in every corner of the world attest to this.

“Um. Mr. Crowley?” Bob ventures, rather timidly, as if unsure yet about approaching him. He gets the name right so Crowley knows the guy has done his homework. Giving him a nod of acknowledgement, Bob releases a sigh of relief that has Crowley smirking. “May I have a word with you?” The amused shock must show through his sunglasses – maybe it’s the eyebrows – because Bob swallows around a dry throat. “I’ll be brief, I promise. It’d mean a lot if you could listen to me.”

Ha! As if that puts Crowley under any obligation, he already saved the Earth once— okay, _helped_ save the Earth, it’s all the same, humans can’t guilt trip him.

“Hey.” He says, and wonders absently if Aziraphale is aware of this exchange occurring so close, after all it’s the angel’s fault. “I really don’t think there’s anything for us to talk about. I’m no messenger boy and I believe whatever you need to discuss, it’s to be brought up directly to Az— Mr. Fell.” He amends immediately, catching himself quickly. “And not me.” And he shrugs because he needs Bob to know how casual he is about this affair. Crowley is actually proud of sounding so coherent. Not one ounce of empathy or jealousy filtering through.

“No.” The other insists. “It has to be you.” Crowley’s eyebrow lift on its own accord. “May I buy you a coffee?”

This has potential. This is ludicrous. And this is also the first time one of Aziraphale’s suitors decide to interact so directly with him.

Well, a free coffee isn’t something he’s about to refuse. “All right.” He concedes at last and gestures with his hand for Bob to lead the way. Another loud honking car passes by and it almost drowns out the soft _Thank you_ Bob utters.

This definitely wasn’t his plan for the day, he follows Bob with long careless strides, swaying his hips as usual like he couldn’t care less about the silly chat this poor guy wants to impart on him. Oh Crowley does care, about this chat and what idiotic sentiment this sap lad will sprout, about Aziraphale positively knowing his suitor has seen no other option than to speak to Crowley, about the stupid empathy he feels for Bob’s heartbreak. Fuck it, Crowley cares _a lot_, so of course he pretends not to.

The walk to a small café is short and spent in silence. They find a table for two in a corner against the front window, Crowley sits so he can watch the entryway and the street, effectively shortening any escape from Bob’s part and giving himself enough room to leave the human way if he so desires.

A waitress, a petite brunette woman with a polite customer service smile, approaches them and takes their orders. A black coffee for Crowley and tea with milk for Bob. There’s an urge inside of him to light a cigarette and maybe work a minor evil thingy against this guy. In the end, he just stays there and waits for their drinks, more silence than necessary. He can’t say he minds, after all, the moment Bob starts talking Crowley will have to spell it out for him, as if any silly human could meddle into the love he has cultivated for his angel and got to finally be freely reciprocated.

The coffee is good, bitter like he prefers it; and the waitress all but directs him a wary look. He shrugs and raises his cup in a sort of placating gesture, impossible to know if her suspicions are for him or for Bob or for the whole situation, there’s such an awkward atmosphere around them, it’s obvious they aren’t friends or family or nothing of the sort.

However, this is Bob’s show, he will try to stay calm – he doesn’t believe the human will push enough to actually force him to make a scene but Crowley isn’t above it either, so that is that. And even if the guy looks kind of pathetic, like any fool in love does, there’s still fire in Crowley’s heart, more so if the object of his affections is involved. Honestly, Bob has no chance whatsoever. Yet Crowley’s going to stop him if he attempts anything funny, and it won’t be nice. Anything but that little four letter word.

Bob clears his throat and it brings Crowley’s eyes to him, even if he can’t tell because of Crowley’s sunglasses.

“I’m all ears then.” He prompts.

The poor lad is definitely timid, he cups his hands around the tea almost absently, and nods once as if preparing himself. Crowley grins, imagining him practising his words over and over in front of a mirror.

“I— ah, I understand this is very personal, but I’m putting myself on the line here too, can I ask some honesty out of you, Mr. Crowley?” His reply is shrugging and taking another sip of coffee. Bob nods again. “I’m very aware that… um. That you and Mr. Fell…” He clears his throat again. “Well, I’m not stupid.”

And that’s neither here nor there. Crowley isn’t dense, they both know what it means, there’s no need to say it out loud or spell it out more obviously as he was expecting it would take.

An electrifying thrill runs down his spine at this mere fact, it’s amazing. A demon and an angel being partners, in crime at first and after millennia, finally romantic partners. What else can Crowley do than to rejoice in this truth? Their relationship being so obvious that even humans pick up on it, it’s a rush of warmth in the Aziraphale-shaped indentation in his blackened heart.

“Good for you.” He only offers that for it won’t do to reveal too much.

Okay, he promised to stay calm unless completely necessary to react. But he did _not_ promise to stop himself from grinning like a complete fool because he’s so fucking in love with Aziraphale and feeling wretchedly delighted by the fact that it’s obvious they’re together.

Bob looks at his face, open and almost gleeful, and it gives him pause. He must regroup, change tactics perhaps. Crowley can’t – and wouldn’t – hide how happy he is with Aziraphale, and no one should get in between them. Especially this guy who knows nothing about his angel. Poor guy, Crowley truly gets it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll step aside or offer more explanations than required.

“It’s just… you’ve no idea.”

Crowley does have an idea. A few of them to be honest. Bob looks sort of sad through his conviction - and Crowley will give him that at least, the credit for his bravery at approaching him, for upgrading from mere gifts for Aziraphale to face his rival for the angel’s love.

He looks pretty unsuspecting, a pal with nothing that calls to him, black hair, regular face, normal voice, ordinary clothes. Crowley doesn’t necessarily want to be mean but Bob has no outward quality that guarantee one will remember him or pick him out in a crowd. Oh he surely even has a dull office job and gets along pretty well with his family, his exes don’t hate him, and all that boring life style. Really, it’s only reasonable that the moment he landed eyes on the divinity that is Aziraphale’s smile the guy was lost forever. The angel has that effect, Crowley knows that, knows it better than anyone else.

Damn it all, Crowley has more than an idea.

And Bob keeps _watching_ him. So he rearranges his glasses on his nose despite them being perfectly in place, just for the heck of doing something with his twitchy hands.

“Look…”

“Robert. Madison. Robert Madison.” He supplies.

Fuck, the guy really _is_ Bob. It makes Crowley utter a choked sound, but he recovers quickly and nods.

“Look, Mr. Madison.” It’s only reasonable because he calls him _Mr._ Crowley. “I don’t know what you think you’re aware of or what you’re expecting out of this. Just let me tell you, I have nothing to do with it. Like I said, you should talk to Mr. Fell and leave me out of it.”

It’s quite a lie, he’d rather the guy never talks to Aziraphale and he’d rather be the kind of demon who would curse the guy’s life to keep him as far away from them as possible. Life, as it is, it’s weird in the sense that Crowley is a lousy demon who won’t do more than advice Bob to talk to the angel he fell in love with knowing Aziraphale won’t reciprocate the human’s romantic feelings. As it is, Aziraphale is enough of a bastard that maybe he won’t be soft about the rejection. Eh, he wouldn’t complain.

“No.” Bob insists. “You don’t get it!” He exclaims hotly. Crowley arches an eyebrow at the outburst and it meeks him immediately. “You would never get it.” He continues, subdued; however, there’s still heat behind his brown eyes. “I realize that I can’t compete with you, I know that. You have—” He stops and swallows the words stuck in his throat, eyes roaming Crowley’s figure with intent. “You’re… _unique_.” Bob settles for that description. The second eyebrow rises, this… this wasn’t the conversation Crowley was expecting. The hands around the tea cup keep moving minutely, a finger twitching here, another caressing the round rim absently. Bob looks at him and offers a tiny self-deprecating smile. “You look like a rock star. Maybe you are, I wouldn’t know, I’m not cool.” Crowley emits a broken sound of surprise and Bob’s smile turns more sincere. “I can tell, by the way Mr. Fell calls your name, the way his eyes go from silver grey to vibrant greenish blue at the mere sight of you. There’s no way I can compete with you.” He repeats.

Crowley drowns the last of his coffee for a lack of a better thing to do. Bob runs a weird show, if you ask him.

“_Really_.” But he’s not even sure what he wants to say.

“The truth is that I’ve fallen in love with Mr. Fell, even knowing you’re in the picture.” Hell, if Bob proposes a threesome he’s flipping the table over and getting the fuck out of here as quickly as inhumanly possible. “That’s why it has to be you, I have to talk to you. My happiness is in your hands.” It almost makes Crowley blink behind his tinted glasses. “You can get whoever you want, with your stylish clothes and suggestive grins, _you win_.”

“Uh.” He opens and closes his mouth several, no coherent reply coming forth. “What?”

Small pink blotches dust Bob’s cheeks, it shouldn’t be endearing for a man in his mid forties but it kind of is. “You are an attractive man, please, you can seduce anyone you want. But I’m never going to love anyone like I love Mr. Fell.” And it’s such a pleading tone.

Crowley believes him, this guy won’t ever feel love as holy and pure as the one Aziraphale produces out of him; that much is true.

And well— the other part is also true, Crowley could seduce whoever he wants if he puts his mind into it. He is the Original Sin after all, he’s the greatest temptation who made Eve taste the Forbidden Fruit and who made an Angel of the Lord seek a demon. Crowley is the lamest demon too, the one who feels love and empathy and despises cruelty for cruelty’s sake. Crowley _does_ get it, oh Bob, he does. But there’s nothing he can do about it, he _is_ a demon no matter what, and he is selfish and adores Aziraphale with a burning passion. He’s waited millennia for the privilege of a true kiss, of reciprocity; he’s faced the wrath of Satan and later of Heaven’s angels with the tiniest of hope that in the end, Aziraphale would be safe and sound and would remain by his side, would be his friend above all else.

And friends they remain. Lovers now actually.

It is the best outcome possible. And he’s sorry for Bob and his wholesome feelings, but Crowley isn’t giving his angel up.

“Mr. Madison… I—”

Bob lifts a hand and shakes his head, stopping him. “You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m overstepping boundaries here, and rest assured I’ve never been this type of person.” He gives a soft cuckle. “I must confess Mr. Fell has changed my life. Has changed my heart.” Yep, that’s how it tends to go man, Crowley has felt it too. “So maybe, just maybe, you’ll find it in yourself to feel sorry for me and allow me to try my best with him.”

He does feel sorry. Damn, Crowley even feels sorry for himself – and we’re not delving into that _now_, nope, no way, no sir.

Back to the point, he feels sorry for Bob, and he can’t blame him either. Aziraphale is an inescapable glow, warm and all-encompassing, strong and tender; no one stands a chance. The guy was at least brave enough to try his luck with Crowley, silly but brave nonetheless.

Bob gives him one last look. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Crowley.” He says and stands up, slaps enough money onto the table to pay for everything and leave a nice tip. A nod in salutation and he’s leaving.

Crowley watches the empty space, the surprise still ringing in his ears.

Yes, Bob definitely ran a weird show.

Waitress girl comes, polite smile showing still. “Everything okay?” She asks and pointedly looks at the empty chair even when the question is logically aimed at Crowley.

“Yeah.” He croaks and standing, shoves his hands into his pockets, willing a packet of cigarettes in the right one. “Uh, there, there’s your money.” He points with his chin like the bills aren’t obvious and waitress girl hasn’t seen them yet. And it’s probably the first time someone has paid for Crowley’s drink. She nods slowly but doesn’t move. “It’s enough, right?”

“Yes, yes it is, sir.”

“Good.”

He takes his leave as well. The tea with milk left cold and untouched, waitress girl picking the money and cups alike.

*

Two more weeks go by since their… erm… coffee date? Crowley isn’t sure how to call it. He knows Bob is still alive and wandering around, he saw him in the bookshop not too long ago and bumped into him in his favourite flower shop – apparently Bob is friends with Crowley’s plants supplier, huh. But they haven’t spoken again; other than those two occasions, the guy has kept his distance.

There _was_ once or twice that his scent lingered quite strongly in some corners of A. Z. and Fell Co. Bookshop, it’s just that Crowley doesn’t ask and Aziraphale doesn’t tell. Probably for the better, this way.

*

Another sad potted plant shows up in a corner. Crowley bites his tongue, he won’t be the one to bring this topic up.

*

A whole month passes by since the Coffee Incident – yes, he’s decided to call it that way for now.

Aziraphale smiles this big amused smile and pats his hand. “Is something on your mind, dear?”

Panic flutters in his stomach so he spreads his limbs even more on the sofa and tilts his glass, silently asking for a refill that his angel obliges promptly.

“Nooo.” He lies, drawling the vocal unnecessarily like a petulant kid.

There’s a tiny reproachful glint in those colourful eyes, vivid with the dim ambient light and the alcohol consumed so far, cheeks plump and pink, and lips curving in a delighted smile despite it all.

Aziraphale sighs and fill his own glass, the red wine swaying with the movement of his hand.

“Really now?” The angel probes, a knowing look being slyly directed his way before looking away for a few seconds. When the gaze returns to him, the slyness has been overpowered by amusement. Crowley solemnly nods, convinced he doesn’t have anything in his mind other than getting extremely drunk with Aziraphale and then falling asleep in his arms. “Oh, and here I thought you were thinking about that customer who brought me the chocolates.”

The tone is so fucking casual Crowley wants to discorporate on the spot; it’s so endearing, the way his angel is an utter bitch.

He splutters, defenceless in the face of this accusation. Mostly because it’s true. “What the—?”

“I mean, Robert hasn’t come around lately, has he now?”

“_Robert_, hmmm?” Crowley’s body moves on its own accord, free hand slipping his sunglasses off and throwing them carelessly onto the small table, getting up and swinging his glass, a huge smirk on his face. He finds himself a few steps away, hip against the desk. “So you’re in a first name basis, huh.”

Aziraphale wiggles pleased with himself, turning on the sofa to follow Crowley’s figure. “Well, he calls me Mr. Fell actually – he said _Angel_ sounded too much like an endearment so he couldn’t really use it.”

Of course his eyes go comically wide at this. “You— Do you— What do you—” He stammers, leaning forward, almost bending himself in half at the waist. “Shit. You go by Angel Z. Fell?” His voice is a wrecked inquiry.

His angel looks so fucking delighted at his own cleverness, as if he solved the most difficult crossword in existence without help.

“Why yes, _Anthony_.” The bitchiness! Crowley is so smitten! “You do call me Angel, darling.” He points out oh so reasonably a heartbeat after. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?” And he hides the smug smile on his wine. Damn, Crowley could drop to his knees, crawl towards Aziraphale right this second and fucking _eat_ that grin, kiss after kiss, with teeth and tongue. “Anyway!” He brings them back to Bob, yeah, right, Crowley is just dying to talk about that human guy tonight. Or any other night for that matter. “Anyway, I find it rather funny how he stopped coming by so suddenly.”

He isn’t sure to which statement latch onto, _Aziraphale uses Angel as his human name!_ All because Crowley calls him that and it’s easier this way, humans hear him call Aziraphale Angel in such a way that even if it’s an endearment it also makes sense to be his first name. Crowley could play hard to get and proclaim it isn’t an endearment, it’s just what Aziraphale _is_, an angel; but there’s no need to trick anyone any more. His eyes soften, a warmth that isn’t alcohol taking residence in his chest.

Instead, he decides to go for Bob’s whereabouts, it’s safer it seems. “Are you really that worried about that lad?” He asks, and sips more wine, pushing himself from the desk and slumping into the armchair in a sprawl. “Are you that cruel to keep him coming simply to see you madly in love with me?” He adds since it’s so lovely to be able to tease him in this regard.

It’s so perfect to be able to be open about their relationship.

Aziraphale gives him a side glance. “Hush now.” And he dismisses the notion of cruelty with a wave of his hand, almost as if performing a magic trick. “I was just wondering what happened with him, is all.” And the wiggle and smugness are back. “After all, Robert told me he was going to try and ask _your friend_ out.”

That’s the worst Bob could have said! What the fuck?!

Crowley’s mouth falls open with incredulity. “Wha—? _My friend?_ I don’t— What are you even talking about?”

The angel is fucking _glowing_, grinning like the cat who got the cream and the canary and whatever else a cat can possibly want. “Oh you didn’t know, dear? He told me you’re friends with this florist shop owner, a very kind man – his words, not mine, of course.” He pauses, watches him through his eyelashes almost coquettishly and takes a very brief sip of his glass. Crowley opens and closes his mouth, no sound comes out, he can’t protest. “I find it devastatingly _kind_ of you to push him into the right direction.” Aziraphale sounds so prim and proper and terribly fond of the idea that Crowley might be playing Cupid.

“I’m not kind!” He hisses through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing into a glare. The reaction immediate. “Do shut up.”

“Were you jealous, Crowley dear?”

Fuck.

Well…

He _was_. And he was more than that. He felt the pang of sympathy, the cold sweat of recognition in that bottomless love towards Aziraphale. He was jealous, and sad in Bob’s behalf, sombre and alight with the fire of desire since he’s finally with his angel as he wishes. Yeah, no, that’s a bit too much.

“I felt pity for him.” That will do. And it’s sort of a half truth. “So I thought a rebound fuck would be right up his alley. Flower shop man has been lonely for quite some time so, everything fixed.” He shrugs.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale protests, but there’s no real harm in it. It makes him smirk and shrug even more exaggeratedly. “No need to be crass.”

“There’s always a reason to be crass, angel. What? Does it bother you that your human might find comfort in another body?” He teases, resting his head on his open palm, elbow at one armrest, the other armrest supporting his leg effortlessly thrown over it.

Golden stare trained in sky blue eyes and soft pink lips and chubby rosy-tinted cheeks and cotton-like silver blond curls. Aziraphale plays coy, leaves his glass of wine empty on the small table, mere centimetres from Crowley’s sunglasses as if that suggested something in particular. Thick fingers take the important job of smoothing the old vest, caressing the worn out fabric around the buttons.

“Now, now.” The angels says. “Robert is not my human, for starters.” He pauses and lifts his chin. “Secondly, I don’t believe for one second that you just… pushed them together, to put it mildly, only for the sake of a one night stand. That’s not you at all darling.”

Crowley decidedly avoids thinking how that implies he’s a romantic at heart. He shakes his head, pretending being annoyed. “Demon, hello.” As if that explained it all.

Aziraphale’s eyes soften and it threatens to tear him open at the seams, all his insides escaping free and flooding the back room of the bookshop like a bad case of sentimentality. “I’m sorry I was so quick to believe you were capable of a lot of awful things, before the— Before. Now I know better, and I know _you_.” It guts him and for a few seconds he’s afraid he’s bleeding into the cushions and gushing into the carpet. It isn’t the case, he’s safe and sound, heart beating unnecessarily fast-paced. He shifts in the seat, watching Aziraphale’s fingers twitch on his lap, nervousness and _sadness_ in the gesture. “I _am_ sorry, eternally so.”

“I don’t care.” He whispers in a raspy voice, the worst lie of the night.

“You do.” Aziraphale doesn’t let him brush it off. “And I do too.” They’re suddenly too sober, too serious, too emotional. “Forgive me for inconveniencing you with how sorry I am, and I will try to make it the least uncomfortable for you, but you have to understand that I see now how mistaken I was and how I hurt you—”

“Stop it, angel.”

“But—”

“_Please_.” Aziraphale stops and nods at him, and Crowley can’t bear to look at those truthful eyes dripping with guilt. He sloppily drinks the rest of the wine. “Top me off.”

“Of course, dear.” He complies, leaving his own glass empty.

Clearing his throat, he regains his composure a bit, taking the tiniest of sips mostly for show. “I did it, not because I was jealous of him, okay?”

“I understand. I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward.” Somehow, that isn’t better.

“Ugh. It’s— it’s alright.” He sighs, this isn’t the evening he thought of. He isn’t even sure this is the evening Aziraphale expected either. “Look, you’re right angel. I didn’t set him up for disappointment. Flower shop man does fancy Bob, and I know once he stops being in your holy presence he’ll get over you. Everyone wins kind of situation, yes?”

Aziraphale blinks at him and very slowly, a smile spreads on his face, way too wide and amused and honest. Crowley takes the chance to drink more. “Bob?” Of course he spits what he was drinking, making the angel find this even funnier. “Do you mean Robert? My, I didn’t know you two were such good friends.”

A chocked sound that’s a mix of _fuck_ and some other syllables slip past Crowley’s lips, nothing really coherent though. Of course his treacherous mouth would go and say Bob out loud, like he’s been calling this human inwardly since he first saw him, even before knowing his name was actually Robert. Damn. “No! No no no, we aren’t— friends.” He rushes to assure. Not friends at all, not now, not before, no coffee or marriage to flower shop man can change that.

The angel chuckles and it’s precious. “Don’t worry, Crowley.” He bites his top lip trying to stop smiling. “Thank you.” He whispers at last, all demure shyness and bedroom eyes.

Crowley shifts some more on the spot, opening his mouth to say something, anything, that might help him escape. “What for?” He chokes out in the end, finally leaving his half full glass on the floor.

“Well. You’ve been so patient with him. And you did such a _nice_ thing for him and your friend.”

Good Lor— he coughs. Damn, Aziraphale really likes the idea of Crowley taking Cupid’s job after all.

“Shut up!”

And just like that, they’re back at teasing and fuck Bob and flower shop man and their ridiculous romance. Crowley will never admit how close he was to fix that human with some serious misfortune, but seriously, how could he? When they had so much in common, loving Aziraphale plenty. However, he knows it’s true what he said, once Bob stops being in the angelic presence of Aziraphale, that love’s going to vanish gently, almost without him noticing – it’ll be a sweet remembrance, of this ethereal lovely man, so soft. He’ll be a sort of fond memory as well, the man in all black, who might or might not be a rock star, sitting in front of him and listening as he poured his heart out, trying to convince him of leaving his place at Aziraphale’s side.

Honestly, Bob is the first… uh… customer of that third type, that engaged Crowley and questioned his place beside the angel. And Crowley doesn’t hate him for it, he’s sure of his place, he earned it. And Aziraphale loves him wholeheartedly.

“Darling…” Yeah, he probably was lost in thoughts for quite a few long minutes. “Crowley, dearest.”

Now, things can go as smooth as they wanted. Bob is out of the picture, with a happy ending of his own.

Crowley snaps the bottles into the trash can and the glasses back into their designated cabinet, all clean. “Let’s go to bed angel.”

And there’s that naughty smile on cherubic features. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

There are three types of customers that linger in A. Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop.

The first type is the kind that wants to buy books. Which Aziraphale despises.

The second type is the kind that wants to browse around, checking the antique selection of rare first editions. They’re sort of friends with Aziraphale.

And the last type… well, the last type is the kind that wants Aziraphale. Which Crowley should despise. He truly doesn’t, he uses them as excuses to play matchmaker. And maybe Aziraphale finds it lovely or amusing or both. In the end, he’s happy with his angel, and nudging some humans in the right direction on the matters of the heart, it isn’t such a sacrifice.

_My happiness depends on you and whatever you decide to do, Jolene_


End file.
